Done With This Turkey
I wrote this essay for Creative Writing Nonfiction. It's supposed to be about a holiday experience. More specifically, not about Christmas. Prof. Herbert asked me specifically not to write about Christmas, because practically everyone wrote about Christmas. I wrote about Thanksgiving instead. Tell me what you think. Pwease?
Done With This Turkey
My grandmother's carpets were all different kinds of white. When you entered the house you were met with white linoleum, a kind of dark-white with invisible marble markings; they hid the dirt and scuff marks. The carpeting in the living room, with her glass menagerie where we were not allowed to go was the softest plush carpeting, snowy-white, the kind you could sleep on. In the den was a kind of creamy frieze. That was where we sat. It was so uncomfortable that mats were provided, for those of us who were forced to sit on the floor.
We sat in the den, watching a holiday marathon on Nickelodeon. Rugrats was playing; the babies escaped from the playpen yet again. My twin sister Lacey sat in Grampa's leather chair, being the only other person in the house besides Grampa who knew how to use the remotes. Katie lay sprawled across the couch. At fifteen she was big enough to cover the whole of it; at fifteen, she wasn't above enjoying some quality children's programming.
I, the littler of the two ten-year-olds, had to sit on the floor. I stole a large pillow from the couch and tried to make myself comfortable, which had been easier in the past, especially with Nickelodeon playing. But now I was bored. Why didn't any adults ever catch the babies in their various adventures? Weren't babies too uncoordinated for these trapeze acts and vine-swinging escapades? Didn't they think it was odd that Tommy ran around with a wrench in his diaper? Wouldn't it get covered in poop?
I stood up and left the den. The adults were in the kitchen. Mom and Grampa sat at the kitchen table, drinking beers; Dad, in a corner out of the way, held his in his hand. Gramma's whiskey sat on a countertop. Gramma herself was busy by the stove, preparing Thanksgiving dinner.
"Hello," Grampa said.
"Dinner's not ready yet," Mom said.
"I know. I'm going out."
"Out?" the adults looked at each other. "Out where?"
"Down the path."
"Look, Kelsey," Gramma smiled and pointed at the chopping block, where the food she had finished sat in their containers. "I made your favorite. Cheese soufflé."
I smiled for her. "Thank you, Gramma, but I'm allergic to yellow cheese."
Her pale, saggy face became blank.
"She'll love it," Mom said. "Don't wander too far, Kelsey."
I headed for the garage door.
"Wait," Gramma called. "Don't forget your jacket."
I turned back to her. "That's alright. I read somewhere that there are nodules under your skin which provide insulation and stir up extra heat, and wearing excessive layers of clothing can be damaging to these nodules, so I'd rather not."
"What?"
"Kelsey is trying to build up an immunity to the cold," Mom said. "I think it's an excellent idea. She's always been more sensitive to the cold than her sisters."
“Have fun,” Dad said.
I let the garage door bang behind me. I ran out the garage and climbed the small tree out front. When it was young it had split itself into having two main trunks. When Lacey and I had been young we had declared a side of the tree for each of us. Within seconds I had climbed as high on my side as I could, a whole four feet off the ground. We had invented kingdoms and flown through outer space on these branches. Lacey had been the leader, with her two-pronged branch, and I had been her assistant, swinging fists at the enemy from my one strong branch.
I wondered what it would be like on Lacey’s side of the tree.
I climbed Lacey’s side in very little time. I was higher now, maybe five from the ground. I could see across the street better. Nothing was going on. I climbed down.
Next to the house were three gigantic pine trees, whose branches were too covered with sap to climb comfortably. They made a large roof together. The pine needles made a thick carpet beneath my shoes. I was in a castle, surrounded by invaders. They chanted and roared as they circled my fortress. But I stood strong, and I had my mighty fists to combat them. And my clever tongue.
The leader of the invaders sat on his horse, gripping their flag. He had yellow, rotted teeth and large black eyebrows. “Surrender, little one!” he said. “Your skinny arms and your chicken legs are no match for my great army. You will fall.”
I swallowed. I couldn’t think of anything clever to say in reply.
I left the castle and walked behind my grandparent’s house. Beyond their back porch was a sudden drop; a steep hill, covered in thorns, that led to the path, which led to the Buttercup Field.
“Oh,” I said. “I’m Eyade, the greatest warrior-princess ever. No poison thorn nor barren cliff can stop me. I will rescue the children from the invaders and free Buttercup Field!”
I picked my way carefully down the hill. The thorns kept sticking into my blue jeans. I had to stop and pull them out. When I had passed the thorn bushes, I stopped and wondered if I should roll the rest of the way down. There wasn’t much hill left; there probably wasn’t anything else to roll down. And anyway, it was Thanksgiving. It wouldn’t be very grown-up to get mud and dirt all over your clothes on Thanksgiving.
I walked the rest of the way down, and started down the path. Above the barren cliffs and thorny bushes, the sky was yellow. To my right was a raging river. I knew that somewhere down this dangerous path was the right way to Buttercup Field.
Then I was attacked by mercenaries! It took all my cleverness and Karate Skills to defeat them. Although I seemed like I was only a blue belt, I was in fact a seventh-degree black belt. I wasn’t Kelsey Hancher, but Eyade, the tallest, most beautiful, strongest, cleverest warrior-princess in the world! Eyade’s hair was straight and red. Her eyes were bright green. Her skin was porcelain. Everyone loved to hear her speak. Her fists were deadly! And when she kicked, you felt it!
Even so, Eyade had to runt to the Great Old Tree. If you turned right at it, you could find the Magic Bridge to the Buttercup Field, so she could rescue the children.
Katie, Lacey, and I had found a huge log lying across the creek behind Gramma’s house a few years ago. It seemed like every time we came to the creek, it had moved to a new spot. Sometimes we never found it, and crossed over the creek by climbing down the banks and jumping over the rivulets of water instead.
“KELSEY!”
It was Mom’s voice. She was probably standing on Gramma’s porch, shouting to the trees. “KELSEY! TIME FOR DINNER!”
I turned and ran back down the dirt path and back to the cement path, and up the steep incline. I dodged the thorns and had to pull them from my jeans and socks.
“There you are, Kelsey,” Mom said. “Wash your hands before you sit down to dinner.
Gramma’s downstairs bathroom had always fascinated me. The pictures of the blue dog, staring blankly at you as you did your business; the lightswitch which was a knob you pressed to turn on and you twisted to change the brightness of the light. I washed quickly, but thoroughly, and ran to the dining room.
Grampa grabbed me, his military hands digging into my skinny arms. “Oop!” he said. “Careful now! Don’t want to smash into the table!” He laughed a large belly laugh.
We sat as we always sat, before, when we all lived in this house. Grampa sat at one end; Dad sat on the other, so the families were equal. Mom and Lacey sat on the far side. I had to sit between Gramma and Katie, because I was the skinniest.
We held out hands out. “Let’s all say a prayer,” and we clapped out hands together and sang.
The Lord is good to me!
So I thank the Lord
For giving me the things I need
The sun and rain and the appleseed!
The Lord is good to me!
Amen!
But Gramma and I shouted at the top of our lungs, “The sun and the rain and the appletree!” as we always did. Everyone else laughed, as they always did. Mom pretended to be upset, as she always did.
“It’s appleseed! Rhymes with ‘things I need’! Need and tree don’t rhyme!”
“Oh, pooey,” Gramma said, and then called her a name. It was a new name every time. Everyone else laughed. I could feel my lips pull back, my front teeth bumping against the skin of my mouth, as I always did when I smiled, but something was different. I could feel something inside, in my heart, maybe, just underneath my skin.
“Who’s carving the turkey?” Lacey asked.
“Dad,” said Katie.
“No, Grampa,” Mom said, in her oh you guys voice.
Lacey and Katie glared at each other across the table. “It has to be Dad,” Katie said. “He’s our dad.”
“Grampa’s the oldest,” Lacey said.
“The turkey’s already been cut,” Grampa said. Then he laughed.
I grabbed the drumstick before anyone said anything. It was huge, longer than my head was big, but all the meat was concentrated at one end. “Think you can handle that?” Grampa asked.
I nodded.
He laughed. “My bottomless pit!”
“Our bottomless pit,” Gramma smiled.
I didn’t smile back. I had been full lots of times in the past year. In fact, I didn’t even feel particularly hungry now. I wasn’t a “bottomless pit” anymore. I opened my mouth to complain, but Mom asked for the relish tray before I could say anything.
“Peas and mashed potatoes,” Lacey said. “You use your spoon to make a lake, and then you put the peas in.”
The mashed potato bowl was passed around. “Where’s the peas?” Katie asked.
“Right here,” Gramma pointed between herself and I. “I’ll start them.” She reached her webbed hands to the pea spoon and touched it. “Ouch! It’s hot!” She hissed and waved her hand.
I picked up the spoon. It was warm, but not hot. “Here, Gramma.” I poured peas onto her mashed potatoes.
Gramma’s eyes boggled. “Wow, Kelsey! How did you do that? You must have nerves of steel!”
“I can’t feel heat as well as most people.” I tried to be modest, but inside I thought, I’m Gramma’s hero.
Mom passed the relish tray around. We added blueberry muffins to our meals, too, along with cranberry sauce. Gramma reached across the table and cut a large square from her cheese soufflé for me. She smiled and put it on my plate.
“There,” she said. “Is that enough for you? I know you love it.”
I stared at the yellow poison on my plate. If I ate it, I would be sick later; I would have a terrible headache and throw up again and again. It also tasted terrible, like an alien’s imitation of what cheese should taste like. I looked up, at my mother, who looked right back at me, straight into my eyes.
I ate it. I almost swallowed it whole, but I got it all down. The conversation bubbled as I moved on to the drumstick, the mashed potatoes and peas, the muffin, the carrots, olives, and the tomato slices. I took more turkey and another muffin. I ate first the muffin, because I liked the muffins, and then I tried to cut into the turkey.
It was white meat, so it was drier than the dark meat. I winced. I didn’t like it as much. I tried another bite. It was still dry, and rather tasteless.
I set my fork and knife down. “I’m done with the turkey.”
The conversation stopped. Everyone stared at me.
“Are you full?” Lacey asked.
“Is it possible?” Grampa asked.
“No,” Gramma said. “No, that’s not right. You’re the bottomless pit. You can’t be full.”
“She’s stopped growing, Mom,” Mom said.
I said, “I didn’t say I was full, I said I was done with the turkey,” but no one listened to me.
“She’s eaten a lot of food,” Katie said. “Did you see her? She was like a machine.”
“I remember when she was eight, she couldn’t stop eating,” Grampa said.
“And she’s so skinny, too, I wonder how she can eat all that and not get fat.”
I felt my chin stiffen and my throat tighten, like something in my chest was yanking down. I wasn’t full, and no one listened to me. To prove it, I picked my fork up and took another bite of turkey. I chewed, but the effort was like scratching my tendons. I swallowed, but I had to force it, and gulp down water to finish the job.
“Don’t force her to eat if she’s not hungry,” Mom said.
“No one’s making her,” Grampa said.
I coughed.
Later, much later, I leaned my head against the coolness of the toilet seat. I studied the shading of the white mat against the white tiling. I felt like something was grinding my skull into incy little bits. Why had Mom made me eat that cheese?
I wished, oh I wished, that grown-ups made as much sense as books and TV shows made them seem. I wondered if I didn’t love them anymore. I swallowed as I felt another wave bubbling in my system. I wished I lived in a world where there were no grown-ups, where I could attempt great trapeze acts and vine-swingings and greats acts of courage without being stopped by a grown-up’s command.
I wonder what happened to the children at Buttercup Field.
Done With This Turkey
My grandmother's carpets were all different kinds of white. When you entered the house you were met with white linoleum, a kind of dark-white with invisible marble markings; they hid the dirt and scuff marks. The carpeting in the living room, with her glass menagerie where we were not allowed to go was the softest plush carpeting, snowy-white, the kind you could sleep on. In the den was a kind of creamy frieze. That was where we sat. It was so uncomfortable that mats were provided, for those of us who were forced to sit on the floor.
We sat in the den, watching a holiday marathon on Nickelodeon. Rugrats was playing; the babies escaped from the playpen yet again. My twin sister Lacey sat in Grampa's leather chair, being the only other person in the house besides Grampa who knew how to use the remotes. Katie lay sprawled across the couch. At fifteen she was big enough to cover the whole of it; at fifteen, she wasn't above enjoying some quality children's programming.
I, the littler of the two ten-year-olds, had to sit on the floor. I stole a large pillow from the couch and tried to make myself comfortable, which had been easier in the past, especially with Nickelodeon playing. But now I was bored. Why didn't any adults ever catch the babies in their various adventures? Weren't babies too uncoordinated for these trapeze acts and vine-swinging escapades? Didn't they think it was odd that Tommy ran around with a wrench in his diaper? Wouldn't it get covered in poop?
I stood up and left the den. The adults were in the kitchen. Mom and Grampa sat at the kitchen table, drinking beers; Dad, in a corner out of the way, held his in his hand. Gramma's whiskey sat on a countertop. Gramma herself was busy by the stove, preparing Thanksgiving dinner.
"Hello," Grampa said.
"Dinner's not ready yet," Mom said.
"I know. I'm going out."
"Out?" the adults looked at each other. "Out where?"
"Down the path."
"Look, Kelsey," Gramma smiled and pointed at the chopping block, where the food she had finished sat in their containers. "I made your favorite. Cheese soufflé."
I smiled for her. "Thank you, Gramma, but I'm allergic to yellow cheese."
Her pale, saggy face became blank.
"She'll love it," Mom said. "Don't wander too far, Kelsey."
I headed for the garage door.
"Wait," Gramma called. "Don't forget your jacket."
I turned back to her. "That's alright. I read somewhere that there are nodules under your skin which provide insulation and stir up extra heat, and wearing excessive layers of clothing can be damaging to these nodules, so I'd rather not."
"What?"
"Kelsey is trying to build up an immunity to the cold," Mom said. "I think it's an excellent idea. She's always been more sensitive to the cold than her sisters."
“Have fun,” Dad said.
I let the garage door bang behind me. I ran out the garage and climbed the small tree out front. When it was young it had split itself into having two main trunks. When Lacey and I had been young we had declared a side of the tree for each of us. Within seconds I had climbed as high on my side as I could, a whole four feet off the ground. We had invented kingdoms and flown through outer space on these branches. Lacey had been the leader, with her two-pronged branch, and I had been her assistant, swinging fists at the enemy from my one strong branch.
I wondered what it would be like on Lacey’s side of the tree.
I climbed Lacey’s side in very little time. I was higher now, maybe five from the ground. I could see across the street better. Nothing was going on. I climbed down.
Next to the house were three gigantic pine trees, whose branches were too covered with sap to climb comfortably. They made a large roof together. The pine needles made a thick carpet beneath my shoes. I was in a castle, surrounded by invaders. They chanted and roared as they circled my fortress. But I stood strong, and I had my mighty fists to combat them. And my clever tongue.
The leader of the invaders sat on his horse, gripping their flag. He had yellow, rotted teeth and large black eyebrows. “Surrender, little one!” he said. “Your skinny arms and your chicken legs are no match for my great army. You will fall.”
I swallowed. I couldn’t think of anything clever to say in reply.
I left the castle and walked behind my grandparent’s house. Beyond their back porch was a sudden drop; a steep hill, covered in thorns, that led to the path, which led to the Buttercup Field.
“Oh,” I said. “I’m Eyade, the greatest warrior-princess ever. No poison thorn nor barren cliff can stop me. I will rescue the children from the invaders and free Buttercup Field!”
I picked my way carefully down the hill. The thorns kept sticking into my blue jeans. I had to stop and pull them out. When I had passed the thorn bushes, I stopped and wondered if I should roll the rest of the way down. There wasn’t much hill left; there probably wasn’t anything else to roll down. And anyway, it was Thanksgiving. It wouldn’t be very grown-up to get mud and dirt all over your clothes on Thanksgiving.
I walked the rest of the way down, and started down the path. Above the barren cliffs and thorny bushes, the sky was yellow. To my right was a raging river. I knew that somewhere down this dangerous path was the right way to Buttercup Field.
Then I was attacked by mercenaries! It took all my cleverness and Karate Skills to defeat them. Although I seemed like I was only a blue belt, I was in fact a seventh-degree black belt. I wasn’t Kelsey Hancher, but Eyade, the tallest, most beautiful, strongest, cleverest warrior-princess in the world! Eyade’s hair was straight and red. Her eyes were bright green. Her skin was porcelain. Everyone loved to hear her speak. Her fists were deadly! And when she kicked, you felt it!
Even so, Eyade had to runt to the Great Old Tree. If you turned right at it, you could find the Magic Bridge to the Buttercup Field, so she could rescue the children.
Katie, Lacey, and I had found a huge log lying across the creek behind Gramma’s house a few years ago. It seemed like every time we came to the creek, it had moved to a new spot. Sometimes we never found it, and crossed over the creek by climbing down the banks and jumping over the rivulets of water instead.
“KELSEY!”
It was Mom’s voice. She was probably standing on Gramma’s porch, shouting to the trees. “KELSEY! TIME FOR DINNER!”
I turned and ran back down the dirt path and back to the cement path, and up the steep incline. I dodged the thorns and had to pull them from my jeans and socks.
“There you are, Kelsey,” Mom said. “Wash your hands before you sit down to dinner.
Gramma’s downstairs bathroom had always fascinated me. The pictures of the blue dog, staring blankly at you as you did your business; the lightswitch which was a knob you pressed to turn on and you twisted to change the brightness of the light. I washed quickly, but thoroughly, and ran to the dining room.
Grampa grabbed me, his military hands digging into my skinny arms. “Oop!” he said. “Careful now! Don’t want to smash into the table!” He laughed a large belly laugh.
We sat as we always sat, before, when we all lived in this house. Grampa sat at one end; Dad sat on the other, so the families were equal. Mom and Lacey sat on the far side. I had to sit between Gramma and Katie, because I was the skinniest.
We held out hands out. “Let’s all say a prayer,” and we clapped out hands together and sang.
The Lord is good to me!
So I thank the Lord
For giving me the things I need
The sun and rain and the appleseed!
The Lord is good to me!
Amen!
But Gramma and I shouted at the top of our lungs, “The sun and the rain and the appletree!” as we always did. Everyone else laughed, as they always did. Mom pretended to be upset, as she always did.
“It’s appleseed! Rhymes with ‘things I need’! Need and tree don’t rhyme!”
“Oh, pooey,” Gramma said, and then called her a name. It was a new name every time. Everyone else laughed. I could feel my lips pull back, my front teeth bumping against the skin of my mouth, as I always did when I smiled, but something was different. I could feel something inside, in my heart, maybe, just underneath my skin.
“Who’s carving the turkey?” Lacey asked.
“Dad,” said Katie.
“No, Grampa,” Mom said, in her oh you guys voice.
Lacey and Katie glared at each other across the table. “It has to be Dad,” Katie said. “He’s our dad.”
“Grampa’s the oldest,” Lacey said.
“The turkey’s already been cut,” Grampa said. Then he laughed.
I grabbed the drumstick before anyone said anything. It was huge, longer than my head was big, but all the meat was concentrated at one end. “Think you can handle that?” Grampa asked.
I nodded.
He laughed. “My bottomless pit!”
“Our bottomless pit,” Gramma smiled.
I didn’t smile back. I had been full lots of times in the past year. In fact, I didn’t even feel particularly hungry now. I wasn’t a “bottomless pit” anymore. I opened my mouth to complain, but Mom asked for the relish tray before I could say anything.
“Peas and mashed potatoes,” Lacey said. “You use your spoon to make a lake, and then you put the peas in.”
The mashed potato bowl was passed around. “Where’s the peas?” Katie asked.
“Right here,” Gramma pointed between herself and I. “I’ll start them.” She reached her webbed hands to the pea spoon and touched it. “Ouch! It’s hot!” She hissed and waved her hand.
I picked up the spoon. It was warm, but not hot. “Here, Gramma.” I poured peas onto her mashed potatoes.
Gramma’s eyes boggled. “Wow, Kelsey! How did you do that? You must have nerves of steel!”
“I can’t feel heat as well as most people.” I tried to be modest, but inside I thought, I’m Gramma’s hero.
Mom passed the relish tray around. We added blueberry muffins to our meals, too, along with cranberry sauce. Gramma reached across the table and cut a large square from her cheese soufflé for me. She smiled and put it on my plate.
“There,” she said. “Is that enough for you? I know you love it.”
I stared at the yellow poison on my plate. If I ate it, I would be sick later; I would have a terrible headache and throw up again and again. It also tasted terrible, like an alien’s imitation of what cheese should taste like. I looked up, at my mother, who looked right back at me, straight into my eyes.
I ate it. I almost swallowed it whole, but I got it all down. The conversation bubbled as I moved on to the drumstick, the mashed potatoes and peas, the muffin, the carrots, olives, and the tomato slices. I took more turkey and another muffin. I ate first the muffin, because I liked the muffins, and then I tried to cut into the turkey.
It was white meat, so it was drier than the dark meat. I winced. I didn’t like it as much. I tried another bite. It was still dry, and rather tasteless.
I set my fork and knife down. “I’m done with the turkey.”
The conversation stopped. Everyone stared at me.
“Are you full?” Lacey asked.
“Is it possible?” Grampa asked.
“No,” Gramma said. “No, that’s not right. You’re the bottomless pit. You can’t be full.”
“She’s stopped growing, Mom,” Mom said.
I said, “I didn’t say I was full, I said I was done with the turkey,” but no one listened to me.
“She’s eaten a lot of food,” Katie said. “Did you see her? She was like a machine.”
“I remember when she was eight, she couldn’t stop eating,” Grampa said.
“And she’s so skinny, too, I wonder how she can eat all that and not get fat.”
I felt my chin stiffen and my throat tighten, like something in my chest was yanking down. I wasn’t full, and no one listened to me. To prove it, I picked my fork up and took another bite of turkey. I chewed, but the effort was like scratching my tendons. I swallowed, but I had to force it, and gulp down water to finish the job.
“Don’t force her to eat if she’s not hungry,” Mom said.
“No one’s making her,” Grampa said.
I coughed.
Later, much later, I leaned my head against the coolness of the toilet seat. I studied the shading of the white mat against the white tiling. I felt like something was grinding my skull into incy little bits. Why had Mom made me eat that cheese?
I wished, oh I wished, that grown-ups made as much sense as books and TV shows made them seem. I wondered if I didn’t love them anymore. I swallowed as I felt another wave bubbling in my system. I wished I lived in a world where there were no grown-ups, where I could attempt great trapeze acts and vine-swingings and greats acts of courage without being stopped by a grown-up’s command.
I wonder what happened to the children at Buttercup Field.